


feathers

by bubonickitten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Bioware can rip their friendship from my cold dead hands, Bipolar Anders (Dragon Age), Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, implied suicidal thoughts, rated teen for the implied suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubonickitten/pseuds/bubonickitten
Summary: Anders is restless. Varric distracts him by badgering him about his questionable aesthetic.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	feathers

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like four years ago, but I'd only ever posted it to Tumblr. Just got an AO3 account and figured I'd upload some of my old fic before working on something new. 
> 
> This is written with bipolar!Anders in mind, though it might not be explicit in the text. 
> 
> CW for brief implied suicidal ideation/thoughts of self-harm.

“So, tell me… what is it with the feathers?” Varric asks.

Anders has been pacing restlessly since the moment he set foot in Varric’s room in The Hanged Man. Varric already tried to tempt him with a meal, if only to get him to sit down, but Anders waved away the offer. Varric isn’t sure how long it’s been since Anders last ate. If the shadows under his eyes are any indication, he hasn’t been sleeping well, either, though that’s nothing new. Varric knows it’s no use nagging. He can’t force Anders to take care of himself. 

The pacing is making Varric dizzy, though. He’s seen Anders like this enough times to know that drawing attention to it will only make him more agitated. Varric knows people, knows what chords to play to win them over, and he’s learned that when Anders is at this extreme, he requires tact and a fair amount of patience. Or, failing that, a distraction. A simple question, apropos of nothing, unexpected enough to snag Anders out of whatever inner monologue is consuming him this time. 

Thankfully, it does exactly as intended. Anders comes to a halt and gives Varric a quizzical look. “What do you mean?” 

“What I mean is _why feathers?_ You’re always wearing them. There has to be some reason.”

“Not everything has a reason, Varric. Some things just are,” Anders replies, exasperated. He feels the beginnings of a headache blossoming in his temples and he’s not in the mood for Varric’s needling, even if it’s well-intentioned, and _especially_ not if he’s just fishing for story inspiration. 

Varric isn’t deterred, though. “Not this one. Come on, there has to be some story there.”

“Why do you even care about this?” Anders’ eyes narrow and suspicion creeps into his voice. Varric has asked this question before, and Anders isn’t sure why it should be interesting enough to warrant any inquiry at all. “Trust me, it’s nothing deep. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not there.”

“Blondie, you know me. I can turn the most boring story into a legend.”

Anders groans. “Please don’t.”

“Come on,” Varric says with a grin that’s no doubt intended to be disarming. “Just entertain me.”

Anders gives a resigned sigh before pulling a chair out and joining Varric at the table. _Finally,_ Varric thinks to himself. Then, without missing a beat, Anders starts tapping his fingers on the table. _Of course._ Varric should have known better than to expect Anders to sit still for more than a moment. Still, he does his best to ignore Anders’ restive fidgeting as he waits for an answer.

“I grew up on a farm,” Anders begins somewhat cautiously. “There were chickens.”

“Chickens,” Varric repeats. He leans forward slightly in his seat. Anders never talks about his life before the Circle — he barely even talks about his time in the Circle, and he’s always been evasive whenever the topic comes up. Varric has carefully avoided asking about it ever since the last time he had broached the topic.

He had been curious about those times that Anders escaped the tower: _What did you do? Where did you go?_ Anders had insisted it was unremarkable, but Varric kept prodding: _What about the last time?_ They spoke often of Anders’ days with the Wardens in Amaranthine, but never what came before meeting the Warden-Commander.

 _I wanted privacy,_ he had explained. _There was never any privacy in the tower, at least not for very long, and I… needed time to myself. I had something I needed to do._

_Ah, I think I know where this is going,_ Varric chuckled. He had been joking, but Anders gave only a hollow laugh. Then he suddenly become very serious — he averted his eyes, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and his shoulders sagged even more than usual, as if an invisible weight had settled over him. He looked like he regretted saying anything at all. While pointedly staring at the floor, he muttered: _Trust me, it’s not what you’re thinking._ Then he had trailed off into a leaden silence, and in that moment he had looked more haggard than Varric had ever seen him — and that was saying a lot.

Everyone else at their table in The Hanged Man had been too preoccupied with their own conversations to notice the heavy, awkward hush that settled between the two. Hawke had been trying for the last fifteen minutes to build an argument that a drake _could_ make an excellent pet, that it wouldn’t disturb the neighbors in Hightown, that they could even keep it at Fenris’ place — at which point Fenris added his own objections to Aveline’s, and Isabela jumped in to goad both of them. Hawke’s antics had drawn the attention of everyone at the table and at least half of the other patrons in the tavern — with the exception of Anders. He had continued sitting quietly, somewhat off to the side and apart from the others, apparently so preoccupied by his own thoughts that he was tuning out everything else — impressive, because The Hanged Man was particularly boisterous that night (thanks in large part to Hawke, as usual). 

Varric always had the impression that Anders wasn’t very good company for himself and should be left alone with his thoughts as infrequently as possible, so he had been attempting for the entire night to engage Anders in some sort of conversation and take his mind off of… whatever it was that had him in a state this time. But now the attempt at distracting him had backfired, and even worse, Varric was at a loss for words — a very rare, very unwelcome experience for him. He would have rather been caught in Orzammar with his pants down. (Well, maybe not, but the point still stands.)

It was right at that moment when Merrill, seated closest to Anders, had spilled her drink. Immediately she began apologizing and fretting, looking around for something to mop up the mess. _Anders, I’m so sorry, did I get any on you?_

 _No. It’s fine,_ Anders had said with an uneasy smile. A half smile, really, as it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked relieved, though — thankful, even. Merrill’s fumble had drawn the attention of everyone else at the table, and in the ensuing chaos, Anders and Varric were able to mutually extricate themselves from their uncomfortable silence. This wasn’t the first time Varric had found himself grateful for Merrill’s uncanny timing. Sometimes he swore she did these things deliberately — Anders may not have noticed the concerned, sympathetic look she was giving him before she turned away, but Varric did, and he made a mental note to thank her later for the diversion.

In any event, Varric hadn’t brought the topic up again since. If and when Anders wanted to talk about it, he would.

Feathers, at least, are a safe topic. He hopes, anyway. Varric waits for Anders to elaborate — he can’t wait to see where this is going — but the mage has fallen silent again. Varric can already tell this is going to be like pulling teeth. 

“And?” he prompts.

“Their feathers were soft,” Anders says with a shrug, as if that’s a sufficient explanation.

 _“And?”_ Varric presses again.

“And _what?_ That’s all. Feathers are soft. I’ve always liked the texture. It’s comforting.” 

“There has to be more to it than that.”

“No, not really,” comes the detached response. Anders traces his fingers around the outline of a knot on the wood table, fixing his eyes on it like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

A full minute passes before Varric breaks the silence with a chuckle. “You do know that chickens don’t exactly symbolize bravery, don’t you?”

Anders looks at him with a slight frown. “I never said I was brave, Varric. And real life isn’t a story — there’s no hidden meaning, no symbolism, no structure. There’s no logic to it. It just _is_.”

Normally, Varric might protest — for fun, if nothing else — but he has a feeling Anders is trying to change the topic, and Varric isn’t eager to move on just yet. Besides, he knows that if he stays quiet just long enough, Anders might feel compelled to fill that silence. And he does.

“But… since you mention it, I take it you’ve never actually spent any time on a farm.”

“Blondie, what do you take me for?”

Anders gives a short laugh, and then continues. “Well… chickens can actually be fierce when they’re provoked."

"Really." 

"Yes, _really_. I still have a scar from a rooster.” 

Varric snorts. “You’re bullshitting.”

“Have you ever seen a rooster’s spurs?”

“Their _what_ now?”

“They have spurs on the backs of their legs.”

“Okay, _now_ you’re bullshitting.” Varric sounds just as faintly horrified as he does amused. 

Anders smirks and shakes his head. “I’m serious! When I was little, too young to know any better, I used to chase the chickens around. Eventually one of the roosters got tired of it, turned around and chased after me. I came away with a nasty gash.”

Varric can’t help chuckling at the mental image of a tiny Anders being terrorized by an animal a third of his size. “And?”

“What’s with all the ands?” Anders laughs again. “And nothing. My mother told me it was my own fault for teasing them, and that I was never to do it again. At the time I was angry that she sided with a bird over me, but she just told me that even the smallest mouse will bite if you back it into a corner. I learned my lesson, the wound healed, and I… kind of forgot about it until now.” He pauses for a few moments. “Varric, how did you manage to get me talking about _chickens_ of all things?”

Varrric says nothing. It always amazes him that so often, when people tell their own stories, the significance of what they say is apparently lost on them.

Anders clears his throat. “Lucky for you, that’s the extent of my stories on chickens. Now, if you would rather talk about cats, that’s a conversation I could _really_ —”

“No, no. I think I’ve had enough of animal stories." Varric wrinkles his nose. "Never really been an animal person.”

“You don’t say. Could’ve fooled me — I had you figured for the outdoorsy type.”

 _There it is_ — a joke, a laugh, a smile. All of that is becoming more elusive by the day for Anders, and Varric savors those increasingly rare moments when he manages to draw it out. Later, he’ll write all of this down, tuck away the memories, keep today and this version of Anders, of all their friends safe from whatever the future holds. Varric has an eye for tragedy, and sometimes he wishes he didn’t; tragedy can make for some good stories, but not this one. 

Today, though — today there’s a story that ends in a smile, and that means something.


End file.
